


undawn

by doritoFace1q



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chameleon Arch (Doctor Who), Dreams vs. Reality, Episode: s03e11 Utopia, Guilt, M/M, Pining, Referenced Time War (Doctor Who), Yearning, a hypothetical one at least, morality issues do to humanity-related amnesia, no beta we die like clowns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:14:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26766349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doritoFace1q/pseuds/doritoFace1q
Summary: There are, he thinks, many ways this could play out.This is what they get.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/The War Master (Jacobi)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19





	undawn

**Author's Note:**

> broke: tensimm was peak nuwho thoschei  
> woke: twissy was peak nuwho thoschei  
> bespoke: whatever ten and professor yana had going for like two minutes

There are, he thinks, many ways this could play out.

*

He could get back in time.

He would be crying, staring blankly into despondent space, empty words in a graveyard’s dialect on his tongue. He wouldn’t notice him until he was at his shoulder, and he would jump like a live wire at his touch.

The humans’ gazes would be heavy against his back, burn holes through his suit and into his heart.

“You alright?” he would ask, fingers winding through his, hand tight on his shoulder as he pried the watch from his hands, teeth clenched against the barrage of incensed screaming in his mind.

His eyes would glaze as the warm, beating metal vanished from his palm, mouth parting in confusion as it vanished into the sleeve of his coat. And then he would turn to him, eyes wide, the tears all but forgotten. “Has it happened?” he would demand as if he’d never even been gone. “Well? Did it work?”

“Oh,” he would say with a grin that stretched just a bit too wide. “ _Oh_ , it was brilliant.”

And he would laugh and throw his arms around his neck, and he would think that maybe it was worth it.

The watch would make its home in the inner pocket of his suit, against his heart and away from his.

That is not what they get.

*

“Come with me,” he would say, voice echoing like a drum in the empty console room.

His hand would creep closer, fingers brushing hesitantly against his. “I thought I already had,” he would say, and he would smile.

That is not what they get.

*

He would take him to Artyon in the 42nd century and hold his hand all the way up the Symul Staircase.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” he would say, the light of the twin moons in his eyes.

“What?” he would ask.

“I never thought I would see anything outside that damned silo.” He would laugh, in that rasping way of his, and he would grin. “Never thought I’d see the world outside my own door, let alone _this_. But. . .” He would trail off.

“But what?” His fingers would be warm against his, and he would drag his thumb over his knuckles almost absent-mindedly.

“It’s so strange,” he would repeat, and his hearts would clench at the dazed confusion marring his face. “Every world, every sky, every wonder you show me. . . it’s like I’ve seen them before.”

“How?” he would ask.

He would shake his head, slowly, wonderingly. “It’s like a dream,” he would say. “Like a dream I’ve forgotten. Like—” he would falter, shake his head again, like a dog shaking off water, and turn back to him, eyes dull and grey and completely, utterly human. “Never mind.” He would smile. “Just an old man’s folly. It’s beautiful.”

That is not what they get.

*

“What about your family?” he would ask abruptly, head pillowed against his chest.

His fingers would falter as they combed through his hair. “Pardon?”

His skin would be warm, feverishly so, for him, against his. “You were found,” he would say, tapping out a beat against his chest. “That’s what you told me. Did you ever find out?”

His hand would settle on the back of his neck, stroking at the soft hair on his nape. “There were always greater concerns,” he would say softly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“But did you ever wonder?” he would press because he wouldn’t be able to resist. “What things would have been like?”

He rested his cheek against the top of his head. “I don’t know,” he would admit, breath ruffling his hair. “I never let myself dwell on it. It’s not like it would have done me any good.”

He would turn his head, pressing his lips to his shoulder. “Guess so.”

He would drag his hand down his back, dragging his fingers along the bumps of his spine. “What about you?” he would ask.

“Hm?”

“Could you tell me about them?” he would ask, and he would clench a fist beneath the sheets. “The Time Lords?” The words would be foreign on his tongue, alien and twisted and _wrong_ , and he would roll over and slam their lips together.

He wouldn’t forget, but he wouldn’t ask again. Not soon, anyways.

That is not what they get.

*

“How long are you gonna stay?” he would ask in the bowels of a Trachian dungeon, their wrists linked to a dozen other prisoners by heavy byzrin chains.

The shackles would clink as he turned to look at him, and he would smile. “Well,” he would say, “until the end, I suppose.”

That is not what they get.

*

He would kiss him, soft and sweet, their legs dangling out of the TARDIS doors.

“What’s wrong?” he would ask, because he knew.

He would rest his head on his shoulder, hand over his single heart, pretending he couldn’t still feel the beat that wasn’t there. “Nothing,” he would lie.

His arm would tighten around his waist. “Let’s go,” he would say. “Somewhere else. I’m afraid I’m finding this place a bit dreary.” He would chuckle, because he didn’t understand, and he would look away.

“That was my home,” he would say abruptly. “That’s where I was born. That’s where I grew up. Me and—” His teeth would clack together and his jaw would tighten.

“Wha—the black hole?” He wouldn’t face him, wouldn’t see the mingled shock and awe and confusion on the face that was supposed to be so cruel. “I don’t under—”

He would keep his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he turned, grabbing his face and dragging him in for a kiss that was all teeth and rage and grief and love, and not let go even when he pulled back to drag a long, rattling breath into empty human lungs. He would press his forehead to his and ignore the empty space reaching back out to him, and pretend he couldn’t feel the tears hot and wet against his face.

He would reach inside his suit, and the click would echo like the crack of a gun.

That is not what they get.

*

He could get back too late, and would stand over the charred corpse until Martha led him away by the elbow.

That is not what they get, and he nearly cries in relief for it, because he can live in a burning universe, but he won’t die in an empty one.

*

He hears the bells against the cloisters in the back of his mind, smells the smoke and ashes in the air, feels the flicker of the kind old professor dying, and then he’s running, hearts pounding fast enough for two, seeing the door sliding shut, screaming, shouting, pounding against hard, unyielding metal to _let me in, Professor, let me in!_

(What would he have given, to just have held on the first time?)

*

He meets his eyes and he sees—

He thinks maybe he can see it too.

The Master slams the door of the TARDIS behind him.

This is what they get.

**Author's Note:**

> throw rocks at me on [tumblr](https://doritoface1q.tumblr.com/)


End file.
